


Breadwinner

by context_please



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Based on my own playthrough, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, F/M, Graphic Description, I don't really know - Freeform, I hated that guy, Injury, Post-Mass Effect 1, Sort of sexual content, Thank God Saren is dead, The Council loves to screw people over, Violence, Who even likes the Council?, Why did I not let them die?, Wow what is it with all the John Shep(p)ards around here?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:09:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4295376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/context_please/pseuds/context_please
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of Sovereign's defeat, the Council are annoyingly nice and John just wants to be left alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breadwinner

**Author's Note:**

> Based on my own play through of Mass Effect. Yes, I chose male Shepard, but I was a Sentinel, not the usual Shepard. I finished it the other day and was inspired to write a little on the aftermath of the game. Also the Council shits me off like there's no tomorrow.

They give him a medal.

After refusing to trust him, blocking his path every damn second, and confiscating his ship, they give him a _fucking medal_.

John Shepard has never felt this kind of hatred for the Council.

Yes, he gave the order to save the _Destiny Ascension_. Yes, he was the one that pulled their scrawny asses out of the fire. But he didn’t do it for the recognition – and certainly not for the Council to turn around and worship him. He’s only ever tried to do the best with the shit he has. He’s learned not to ask for rewards or credit: both are honours he’s never been granted. John isn’t even a soldier – he’s a sentinel, but that never stopped the Alliance from welcoming him with open arms. It never stopped them from putting Kaidan on his team. Kaidan was a good kid, and now he’s dead. There isn’t even a body to bury – he was vaporized along with most of Virmire. John doesn’t know if there was anyone he could send it back to.

Shepard has learned to take the shit the universe throws at him. He witnessed the sacking of his home planet by slavers. He sat alone in the sand, covered in the blood of his comrades, clutching Menda’s body to him and desperately hoping the Thresher Maw lost interest. He’d cried silently when the Thresher Maw’s incessant shifting unearthed what was left of Quinn’s body – only a head on his limbless torso, face screaming silently, bleeding desolately onto the empty planet.

John Shepard has been through a lot. He’s seen so much and come out relatively unscathed (not completely psychotic). He still tries to do the right thing.

The Council needed their spoiled little asses saved to be able to see that.

All of a sudden they’re bending over backward to do whatever they can for him. They give humanity a seat on the Council; they grant him immunity; they give him a medal. And as much as John hates them, it’s nice to be pandered to, even if it puts him on edge.

When he limps back to his quarters on the Normandy, he peels his armour off immediately. It’s careless of him to leave it here, smeared with dirt and grime and liberal helpings of his own blood, but he can’t bring himself to care. His identification tags hang listlessly around his neck and he yanks them off to get rid of the burning itch underneath his skin.

The adrenaline boost is starting to give. He stumbles into the bathroom, more than ready to clean the stench of fear and death from his skin. Blazing pain spreads up from his ribcage as he twists to turn on the shower. While the water heats, he watches himself in the mirror.

The bruising on his ribs is rather spectacular. He can see the imprint of each one again his skin, painted in blues and purples. John’s seen it before, but it still borders on weirdly disturbing and pretty awesome. It does hurt like fuck, though.

There’s a bullet firmly embedded in the opposite shoulder, and the thanks the deities of the universe that he won’t need to use his left arm for a couple of weeks. He’ll have to go to the Doc tomorrow to get the bullet out but he can’t be around people at the moment. He’s always been so careful to watch his words around others, and if he goes out there now, all that work will go out the window.

He raises his left hand, careful not to jostle his shoulder too much, and touches his chest. There’s a burn spreading from his right pectoral to the top of his shoulder and down his right arm. It hadn’t registered at the time – he thinks the shields on his armour may have failed when Sovereign-as-Saren threw too many rockets at him. No wonder his armour had cracked and bubbled. John just hadn’t realized the damage went beyond his armour. The burn is bright red: angry and inflamed. The shower won’t help, but he doesn’t care. He needs to feel clean.

John finally looks at his face. There’s a bruise spreading down his jawline but otherwise his face escaped unscathed. His hair should be blonde, but it’s so filled with dirt and dust it’s turned a mousy brown. The raised scar over his nose looks the same as ever. It’s a constant reminder of his dead squadron. They gave their lives and all he gained was a little upraised skin. He could have let the doctors stitch it up, could have let the line be nothing but a tiny sliver of discoloured skin, but… He needed the mark. Needed it to remind him what he lost, what he always stands to lose. He’d sat in the sand clutching corpses to him, his own blood pooling in his mouth and spilling past his lips, and it was only a scratch from a piece of Mako shrapnel that flew into his face.

But what he hates most of all? His eyes.

He hates them with so much passion it surprises him. They are a carbon copy of his mother’s, the same mother he witnessed being shot. Men and women alike dote upon the green of his eyes, compare them to grass in spring and the water in forest ponds. He’d taken those people to his bed because it was easier than having a real relationship. Easier than getting attached again.

Like _that_ worked out so well.

John watches as the self-hatred builds in his eyes. He’s so fucking pathetic.

A gentle touch on his back breaks his cycling thoughts.

Liara’s hands are silky on his fury-heated skin, sliding up his spine. Her brilliant sapphire eyes watch him in the mirror, never breaking contact. Her other hand curves around his bruised ribs, touch so light he barely registers it. She drops a kiss into the blend of his neck and shoulder. The touch of her lips and press of her bare breasts against his back send a spiral of pleasure through him, but his dick doesn’t even twitch. He wishes it would. Then he might feel remotely normal.

Liara turns him around, breaks his eye contact with himself. He feels a little better for it.

She’s naked, dappled blue skin bright under the harsh bathroom light, eyes swirling with soft emotions he can’t name. He doesn’t want to. If they vanish one day, he won’t have anything to miss.

Her kiss warms his lips. It’s tender, so gentle he feels he might break at any moment. Her hand, just as beautiful as the rest of her, wipes at the tears suddenly coursing down his cheeks. With the other, she cradles his soft cock. Not stroking, just holding. It’s nice.

Her lips and hands draw the tension out, until he’s slumped against her, the shower still drumming away in the background.

When she pulls back, it’s barely more than an inch. She whispers, ‘John,’ against his lips, breath slipping into his parted mouth.

It’s the first time she says his name, and it’s perfect.

The water is like fire on his battered body, but that’s okay. Liara’s here, and that’s what matters.


End file.
